Classic Poem

Dreaming, waking, the beggar maid
Held her through the city's din,
The pitiless glare and the pitiful shade
Whose strands are woven of beauty and sin.
But the pools by the wayside shone like flame
Where Love's likeness burned for a breath and sped,
And a Voice through the multitudes called her name,
And “I know some day He will come,” she said.

He came at last and He set her free
From the tangled meshes of beauty and sin,
He clad her in gold and embroidery,
Fair without and shining within.
Loved and lowly she stood at His side,
With gold of His crowning upon her head.
“I have called, thou art Mine, My chosen Bride,
In thee I will set My Throne,” He said.

Lost in light is the beggar's array,
Thro' the mists of glory the city unseen,
But shadow and echo make mocking play
That a beggar maid should be crowned a queen.
And she marvels much that the thing should be,
“Am I waking or dreaming here where I stand?”—
“What matter? My dreams come true,” saith He,
“And no one shall snatch thee out of My Hand.”